


ghost fic (^:

by starzaya



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst and Humor, Death, Ghosts, M/M, Mild Gore, Slow Burn, Somewhat Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starzaya/pseuds/starzaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can tell</p><p>something isn't right</p><p>anymore; again; for certain;</p><p>but by then</p><p>it's too late</p><p>and by then</p><p>it's too</p><p><em>late</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ghost fic (^:

**Author's Note:**

> **_READ THE TAGS FIRST._**  
>   
> 
> the title is a joke guys
> 
> I will probably not be posting more until the rest of it is done. Maybe a chapter or two, if I edit it. This was originally going to be a oneshot, but I decided to make this a multichapter. The rest of it might not be done for another couple of weeks. As of right now, 6/28/16, it is BARELY done. I'm only ~5k words into an over 20k word project. 
> 
> More tags will be added as this goes along, too. Please enjoy! :D

He isn't usually caught off guard. That ain't how Jesse McCree rolls. Jesse isn't some _child_  who gets scared of thunder and lightning. Okay, well, maybe he is when it comes to storms, but he has an _excuse_. He at least isn't a pissbaby who jumps and turns around with the Peacekeeper at every little noise... Yeah, that kinda conflicts with he isn't caught off guard. The point is: even when surprised, he isn't caught  _off_ guard and gets so scared he misses shots. Nah, he's on high alert, nothing scares Jesse " _Deadeye_ " McCree--

It happened so fast.

One moment, he's just smoking his cigar cheerfully, walking slowly down an alleyway. It's dark out. He's tipsy. Like usual. Not drunk enough that his vision is blurry and shifty; his steps are solid and straight; but drunk enough that it's giving him a pleasant high as the night passes by. The air is cool, pleasant, a nice blanket to make his thick layers comfortable. The spurs on his shoes (and on his guns, but we don't talk about those) clink as he walks. Gravel moves out of the way as he moves with the smoothness he "attempts"to keep a constant in his life. A puff of smoke leaves his lips, and steadily flows from the lit end of his cigar. It's peaceful. But not for long. This is only a moment, remember? And so, the next moment, steps are heard behind him and the instant feeling of uneasiness that's vaguebut evident enough that he turns around, gun drawn at his hip and ready to shoot. 

Nobody's there. The alleyway is silent again, _too quiet_ , like some cliche horror movie, and Jesse's the white main character who will somehow survive even though he's unnaturallydumb. Even the wind stopped for whatever this situation is. The air is stale, but cripplingly and creepingly alive. It dances on Jesse's skin, sending waves of adrenaline spikes that made fear replace the oxygen in his blood. He held his breath, listening to his instinct. Nothing made any noise. No insects chirped, to break the cold air that made his clothes seem thin. Pleasant feelings reversed into dread. A short, too loud breath was taken in, and Jesse could feel pathetic freezing sweat on the back of his neck. His hairs stood on end, as ready to pounce as he was. Nervously adjusting the cigar in his mouth to keep himself grounded, he tried to calm himself down mentally. He swallowed.

The steady burn of the smoke going through his system calmed him slightly. Made everything more bearable.

Yet five minutes passed.

Nothing.

...Fortunately?

This would compromise the fact that this happened so fast, but you don't understand,  _it did_.

Time sped. His heart slowed. Relaxation came back, and by the time he had put his gun back into the holster...

The sound of a gunshot rings through his ears, and something that starts out as more as shock rips through his body, eliciting a cry that came out more strangled than Jesse thought it would, which is a bit oddly scary. Everything comes through a standstill, and he's left disorientated and confused. But nothing is happening, it's like his brain is lagging, unable to process what just happened and is giving him an in-out-of-body experience as everything becomes bubbly and unclear. Lines are blurred and edges are rough. He can't move. Everything is still. It does not burn to not breathe.

Realizing it's the peace before the storm too late, his brain flies into panic:

 

He can tell

 

something isn't right

 

anymore; again; for certain;

 

but by then

 

its too late

 

and by then

 

its too

 

 _late_.

 

 _Pain pain pain pain pain pain pain_ comes like a bat out of hell, searing from his neck. Agony is seeded in his windpipe, and its roots feed off of his blood that's in such quantity close to it. Deprived, unhappy with just that, it slips through his veins, only ending up as far as his heart and lungs, down his elbow and his brain. It mercilessly and hungrily makes everything in its touch throb. A migraine, a heart attack, a lack of breath, all of this, but _worse_. His blood, as expertly trained as he is, tries to escape, tries to _run run run_ but in it's frantic, desperate plea to not feed what's making his brain scream  _pain pain pain pain pain pain pain_ _holy fuck pain pain_ it only ends up bubbling up in the back of his throat. Esophagus turned into a volcano of boiling hot sanguine fluid that erupted, coating his tongue. Taste buds started sending signals, comprehending the taste: wet pennies, metallic, disgusting, _the blood that's supposed to seeping out the hole of the injury that the bullet made_. It went between his teeth, onto his lips, contrasting alarmingly with his skin. Everything is exploding, terrified, hyper aware that death is coming to reap a victim.

Jesse's hand clasp around the openings in his neck, as the impact and the shock that he just got shot in the goddamn  _throat_ makes him stumble backwards, flat onto his back. The cigar, that he had been so calmly smoking before, fell to the ground, underneath him, and probably put out with his weight. His head slams down onto the concrete, heightening the pure, terrifyingly distinct feeling of "I'm going to die here and there's nothing I can do about it" fills him from the top of his head to his toes to his fingertips. It's anxiety that's a thousand times worse than anything he's ever felt before. Near-death experiences didn't cause this much adrenaline, so much that it hurt, to come flooding into his veins. Blood is replaced with gas and the cold, hard reality that there is zero chance of survival lights everything hotter than the end of his cigars. On the ground, he twitches with shock and defeat and death. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in different places: most importantly, the places that don't _exist_ anymore. 

Air cannot get to his lungs through his mouth anymore, and the confused air burns as it passes into places that it's not supposed to, filling spaces forcefully. Blood sucks in the oxygen, as it spills onto the ground underneath him, staining and spreading into his clothes. It's not gushing, but it's coming out in a steady flow. His vision is blurry, and it doesn't help that there's a constant stream of frightened, salty, bitter tears that mix with steamy vital red to create the drink of death. He's dizzy and nauseous and if he could throw up right now he probably would, but the only vile that escapes his mouth is his own, sick gore, and pitiful gargles of fading life. It's the only thing that can escape the gaping wound that tore right through his windpipe. Death would not take long to arrive.

Everything reeks, suddenly, and he is all too aware of his uncleanliness. He hasn't showered in a week. Hasn't had the chance to. Dirt, perspire, and a distinct  _odor_ that's dirt, dried rot, and cherry blossoms gone bad. Dusty regret and self deprecating truths. Mixed with the smell of his own heavy rush of blood, and it's so disgustingly sorrowful. Wet rocks, hidden underneath what's making them wet, remind Jesse of rivers that he would wade in sometimes, as a child. Was this so-called life flashing before your eyes? Picking apart the situation in attempt to hold on and getting reminded of memories that would die with you? How _pathetic_.  He could stand to jump in a river, fully clothed, right now. Feed himself to the fish, instead of rot away into unappreciative artificial ground who would take no use of his corpse. The non-sentient beings would be disgusted, probably, by the bugs that would come flocking. 

Bodily fluids seep out of every orifice they can. Things aren't working right, in the attempts that are in vain to keep Jesse alive. Everything is malfunctioning, struggling to continue on this hellish road, struggling to continue to build new train tracks to get around the end of the line. But there's nothing you can do, when something out of your direct control ends. It's over. The line stopped. The pencil has left the page and it's not returning to touch the textured, fine fiber again. In fact, the pencil has been snapped in half, and discarded into an incinerator just so it will never grace that line substantiation.

 _This blows_. Jesse doesn't like this at all. This is the most underwhelming way for a wanted outlaw to go. Destined to rot in an alleyway, mangled. He was supposed to be a  _hero_ , dammit. He left the illegal business (for the most part) to do  _good_ and he's fated to die like one of his own victims from "those"days. This isn't how it was supposed to end. No, no, he was supposed to have a family, or at least a  _spouse_. Die of old age, or die protecting somebody he cared about, like he was supposedto. Maybe even neverdie; Mercy always said "Heroes never die", she probably was also halfway on a dose for immortality. Not that Jesse knew about that. 

With a sudden surge of increased, completely unrelated panic, he realizes he hasn't even fallen in _love_ yet. He can't go like this. Just die. Kick the bucket in an alleyway. Be ended by someone who actually knew how to assassinate people. Not to die by some foolish mistake to keep looking in one direction. God, he's such an idiot. If only he turned around, he probably wouldn't be dealing with actual  _death_ right now. What a stupid mistake. Something so small got him killed. He isn't supposed to die making newbie mistakes. He's meant to die a  _hero a hero a hero a hero_. Not get shot in the neck--

A thought breaks through his symphony of internal grief filled screeching:  _this bullet wasn't meant to deliver a quick and painless death_.

This was no accident. It had been deliberately angled in such a way-- only a way professionals could pull off and know-- it would make death come swiftly but not quick enough. Aimed to certainly kill, and with no directly on hand professional doctors, fatal, with no exceptions. Meant to cause ungodly pain (ungodly was right, there are no English words to describe this _agony_ ). The  _Deadlocks_ had talked about this technique, for purposely messy assassinations...which were a lot of them. But...

The person, who stood over Jesse's dying body did not look like a gang member. No, they looked like somebody of a more noble organization. They wore complete black, accented with bright red glow-y bits that in Jesse's fading, ruined vision that pounded as hard as his heart, scattered. A pistol, something so mundane to be taken out by, was in their left hand. Left handed. Such a minute detail; they're left handed. It was in this moment of clarity, a moment of the pain being put to the back of his mind, his hands loosened around his neck, bloody fingers and soon-to-rust metal hand falling. The river of his own blood stopped, started to drain and dry, the drought of decease soaking it all up.

Life was his blood, slipping through his hands and onto the cold asphalt beneath him. His mind stopped pounding. The before thought steel grip he had on life loosened, with bittersweet, icy warm, delicately harsh, content regret. His peripheral vision turned black, and started spider-webbing its way into the rest of his vision. The pain was ebbing, a sure sign that his nerves were dying slowly, giving into the eternal sleep. Adrenaline had given up the fight against the darkness fighting its way through the fire of his life. Stubbornness faded into wise surrender. Acceptance.  _Buenas noches_ _,_  he thought, woefully.  _It's been real_. 

He did not sign the contract with death; he merely shrugged and decided to go through with it. The sword was falling down on top of him anyways. There was no way around it. Hell, who needs love anyway? 

Through quieting hyperventilating, Jesse smiled.

Through fading consciousness, he realized he wasn't the main character of this horror show, after all.

Then used the last bit of strength he had to spit most of the blood in his mouth at the unknown who stood so irritatingly superior over his dying/dead body.

And let the crushing weight of death obliterate him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/1/16: While rereading this, I realized that it said RIGHT handed instead of LEFT handed. I don't know the difference between left and right hahah ooopppsies...

**Author's Note:**

> the actual fic tho is not a joke
> 
> Contact me at:  
> <http://starzaya.tumblr.com/>
> 
> Somebody who was very helpful in the making of this made a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/animegam3r/mchanzo-ghost-fic) for the fic! Our literal tears went into this. My own fanfic made me cry. Goddammit.


End file.
